


CORE

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance, mentions of potential past dub-con, minor character attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin and Arthur are SIS spies. To uncover the CORE agent killing MI6 agents left and right, they go on a rogue mission, pretending to be married. Written for merlin_writers theme of the month challenge: pretend relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	CORE

**Author's Note:**

> My original prompt was: _Under-cover Couple - In order to investigate a series of crimes, our couple has to pretend to be married and in doing_  
>  so, discover that the tension is more UST then they have been giving it credit for. I did change it up a bit but I hope I was faithful to the essence of it.

Morgana closes the door behind her; her eyes are bloodshot, wet; the sigh she releases seems to shake her and stutter in her chest. “He's... Not well.”

Merlin starts for the handle, but Morgana says, “The doctors said one visitor only today.”

Merlin tears his gaze away from the door, fists balled.

“So it was CORE?” Arthur asks, because it's the question both he and Merlin have at the tip of their tongues, the question Merlin would be asking if he wasn't cut up about not having access to room 205.

Morgana tips her head back proudly, a curtain of dark straight hair swishing forward. “I can't divulge that information.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, closing in on her so that she has no other choice but back up against the door. “This is more important than protocol.”

Morgana out-stares him. “I still can't break the rules.”

Merlin jumps back into the conversation and says, “That's what Gwaine was working on; of course it was CORE.”

Arthur's eyes flash to Merlin, who looks pale, drained and as angry as Arthur feels. “So then what do we do?”

“We get on the case,” Merlin says, turning around, mouth compressed in a rigid line.

“Wait, hey, no,” Morgana says, waving her hands in denial. “Not until K has talked to the Foreign secretary.”

Merlin holds his eyes and Arthur nods; together they turn around and walk away, ready to start on their self-imposed mission.

“Pendragon, Emrys!” Morgana shouts after them. “I'm warning you; you're not going rogue, not on this.”

Merlin and Arthur stalk to the lifts without heeding her, not this time.

 

**** 

 

The skateboarder rolls down the ramp and jumps across to the next, the board sticking to his feet as though somebody glued them to it. Whirling round, he acquires new speed; arms out, he seeks another challenge. 

He slides his board across the long cement parapet that runs from one side of the skater-park to its mid-length. Before the end of the ledge, he launches into the air and does a back flip while the skateboard continues to spin forward.

He lands on it with both feet.

The few people watching clap.

When the first raindrops drum down, Arthur flips up the collar of coat. 

“Don't tell me you skated as a child,” Merlin startles him by saying.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “Just watching for something to do.”

“And here I was,” Merlin says, the skin around his eyes creasing into a myriad little folds right at the corners, “thinking that little you used to scare your posh neighbourhood by rampaging across it on your skateboard.”

“So you think I come from old money?” Arthur asks, a soft hum breathed out with the question.

“Since your background is classified,” Merlin says with a valiant shrug, “I sort of thought one up for you.”

“Mine in only as classified as yours is.” Arthur rolls his eyes, his lips quivering into a near smile. “What made you give me this fantasy background though?”

They fall into step, leaving Waterloo Bridge behind, the tarmac shining with the sheen of rain under their soles, the Thames on their right duskily reflecting the steely grey of the sky. “The accent,” Merlin says, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Granted, you putting on that public school drawl of yours may be part of the act--”

“I can do a mean Glaswegian accent,” Arthur says, layering it on for a second or two, “and I can pass for Russian.”

Merlin's shoulders rise up to his ears. “...but I do think it's real, your accent. Most of the time.”

Arthur tightens the belt of his coat, to the point it sits like a constricting band across his middle. “How was Gwaine?” 

“Not awoken yet,” Merlin tells him, his shoulders narrowing. “Not good.”

“Mmm,” Arthur says, because while they all know that dying is always a possibility with their job, nobody wishes to end up where Gwaine is, in limbo. 

They bypass the South Bank Centre and the old style carousel to find themselves a bench facing the river, Jubilee Gardens behind them, the hulking shape of a tree shadowing their position. Leaves drip water in a constant cadence; the wind, a sharp breeze that smells like the river, rises and tugs at their scarves. Since it's raining, people move briskly ahead, heads lowered, hoodies up. Even the street performer moonlighting as a statue packs up and goes.

Arthur tips his chin against his scarf and says, “What's your name?”

Merlin's eyes harden; his lips thin. Even though his legs are stretched out in front of him, feet shy of a puddle; tension like a fracture line pervades his body. “Ambrose Malory.”

“What is the currency of Costa Rica?”

Merlin smiles, licks his lips and says, “The Costa Rican Colon, do you want me to tell you today's exchange rate?”

“Nah,” Arthur says, “don't overdo it.”

“Shit, all my factoid learning goes for nothing.”

Arthur ignores Merlin and continues with the rota questions. “What's your favourite dish: chives risotto, duck à l'orange or roasted vegetables with Lamb?”

“Fuck it, Arthur,” Merlin says, a smile covering up the swear word, “why am I always the one who has to pose as a vegetarian?”

“Because you have just one of those faces, Merlin, ” Arthur says over him, his sing song tone mocking Merlin's. “When did you marry me?” He waves a hand. “That is, when did you marry James Worth?”

“In 2010,” Merlin says, covering his heart with his palm in a fake romantic gesture while casting his eyes at the heavens. “In Spain.”

“Correct,” Arthur says, ploughing over Merlin's levity, but letting him continue if he wants, because this charade they have to play might just be their only source of it for the near future. “Why were guineas called guineas?”

“Because they were minted using West African gold,” Merlin fires quickly.

“Right again,” Arthur says, changing the nature of the next question a bit. “Why do you want to buy the Carrick Hoard?”

“Because as a collector I can't let this opportunity pass me by,” Merlin says, now sinking into his role with gusto. “These are little pieces of history we're talking about.”

“How much is the hoard worth?”

“It's rumoured to be worth “£300,000, but I can't say for sure and won't buy till I've had a proper look at the coins.”

Arthur smiles; Merlin couldn't be doing any better at his questioning than this. “Do you love me?” 

Merlin takes a breath, stretches his legs further, the line of muscle showing under the fabric of his trousers, tense. “Of course I do. I married you.”

“You seem to be doing well,” Arthur says, watching Merlin's profile, raindrops lathering the contours of his face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “You remember the shtick.”

“It's not as if you're testing me under pressure.”

Arthur has no wish to recreate an interrogation environment, to put Merlin through that. Perhaps he's soft, or has gone mellower, but Merlin's the one person he can't do it to. “Let's not get there, shall we?” he says, low, eyes straying westwards in the direction of St Thomas hospital, where even now Gwaine's lying.

“It's not as if I want to end up like Gwaine, Arthur,” Merlin says, guessing what Arthur's thinking of, his shoulders sagging with the big exhalation that leaves his ribcage.

“They're dangerous, you know,” Arthur reminds Merlin. “The more so because we don't know who it is exactly, who'll turn up to buy the coins.”

“But what if some random buys them?” Merlin asks. “What if they're plan goes tits up and an idiot collector gets their hands on the hoard? It's been known to happen.”

“I wager they'll be eliminated,” Arthur says, making himself sound as cold and detached as he can, knowing he can entertain no pity. 

“I suppose we'll have to stop that from happening too,” Merlin says, turning his head the little bit necessary to catch Arthur's eyes.

“The priority is to pose as two snobbish collectors and trace the real buyer--”

“And stop them from using the hoard to finance CORE. Yeah, yeah, I know,” Merlin says, a sigh fitted around his words. “What I don't get is why we've got to pose as husbands.”

“Because a lone unknown collector turning up, let alone two, will raise suspicions among the community,” Arthur answers readily, his plan as carefully thought out as one coming directly from K's office. “A snobbish married couple frivoling their time away on a country estate and wanting to buy some pretty things should fly under the radar.”

“Yeah, okay, I get your drift now.” Merlin tips his chin down, looking at his shoes until he cranes his head to gaze at Arthur once more. “Till when?”

“Until we can,” Arthur says, jaw locking. “Then we bail, track the buyer and let them lead us to CORE.”

“Yeah, let's hope it goes that way,” Merlin says, looking towards St Thomas just like Arthur did before. “Because I really want to throw away the key on those bastards.”

“We will,” Arthur says, before standing up, their session over. “We will.”

 

**** 

Arthur rolls Continental up the drive of Glenarm Castle, stopping aslant of its east tower and its Jacobean turret.

With a flip of the key he kills the engine.

“You've still got to tell me where you found a Bentley now that K isn't shilling out,” Merlin says, stretching in the leather seat. 

“I foraged a bit,” Arthur says, leaning across Merlin's seat to get at the glove box. He opens it and takes out a little velvet bag. “And got these as well.”

Merlin grabs the bag and empties its contents in his hand. “Rings of course,” he says when two specular wedding bands tumble into his hand, catching the light of the afternoon sun. 

“Put one on.”

Merlin tries one of the rings on; it fits and Arthur gives himself a mental pat on the back for guessing Merlin's size right. Merlin has long, slender fingers but big hands, the palms wide and strong. It makes for an odd mix when it comes to ring scouring. “Good choice,” Merlin says with a tight smile. “Nice and understated, remind me to send my future partner you way if the time ever comes for me to tie the knot.”

“You should always trust my judgement, Merlin,” Arthur says, closing his eyes against the light reflected off the ring's surface, its smooth polished perfection denouncing Arthur's mirepresentation of the truth, how they're not at all married.

“Oh no,” Merlin says, handing him the other ring, their fingers brushing during the exchange. “I wouldn't go as far as that.”

“Ha, bloody ha.” Arthur tried his own ring on before so of course it fits perfectly, a round bar of metal moulded to accommodate the shape of his finger. “Very funny.”

On him the ring sits heavy. He's posed as so many people so far he's lost count. What he's never had to do is pretend to be married, to be somebody's husband. He's glad he hasn't had to before. It's one burden less, one sham less. The only marriage he has a knowledge of was that of his parents and in spite of his father's stern outside it was a true one. He wouldn't like to mock it. 

“Arthur, are you all right?” Merlin asks, his hand brushing the length of his arm, breaking goose pimples all over Arthur's flesh, a shiver that floats up his skin and sends his heart stuttering. “You look pale.”

“Nah, I'm fine.” Arthur looks up, tilts his head back, nose up in the air as if he's just smelled a particularly offensive smell. “Raring to start.”

“It's okay if you're scared,” Merlin says, in that earnest tone of his that makes Arthur wonder how Merlin can have avoided becoming cynical working the job they do. “With what happened to Gwaine, it's more than normal. I mean--” Merlin's Adam's apple disappears behind the folds of his shirt. “I saw how he was. That's not a good look on anyone. But I won't let that happen to you, Arthur. I promise. I'll protect you with my life.”

Arthur's grabs Merlin by the jacket, brings his face close so that every little aspect of it is highlighted for him, from the widening of Merlin's pupils, eating away at the dark blue of his eyes, to the flaring of Merlin's nostrils. He growls, “You'll be doing no such thing, Merlin. That's how you die.”

“Arthur,” Merlin grits out, loosening Arthur's hold on him, “you're creasing my jacket. How am I supposed to play the dandy if you crease my jacket?”

“No, you don't get to play the humour card,” Arthur says, letting go of Merlin, not so much because he wants to but because Merlin's right; they can't turn up looking dishevelled. “This is serious. CORE has left a string of dead men in its wake. This is no joke.”

I know,” Merlin says, adjusting his collar. “I've been at this a while, you know.”

“Yes, but your talk was more than moderately unsettling.”

“For you perhaps,” Merlin says, lowering his gaze so that his eyes are on the gear lever. “I know I don't want to lose another one of ours and...” Merlin's voice grows softer and softer but then rises again when he adds, “especially not you.”

Arthur rattles out a sigh. “Very well,” he says, leaning over once more to re-open the glove box. “Then do me a favour and take this.” He drops a Heckler in his lap.

“Arthur, we're on our own,” Merlin says, taking the gun nonetheless. “The foreign secretary didn't authorise this mission. Should we carry?”

“Should we wait for them to shoot first?”

Merlin pockets the Heckler. “What about you?”

“I certainly didn't come unarmed.”

“One of these days,” Merlin says, leaving the car, “you'll have to tell me how you managed airport security.”

 

**** 

 

A chandelier hangs from the drawing room ceiling, a cascade of crystals shining as brightly as diamonds. The parquet floor has been polished to within an inch of its life and reflects the glare from the chandelier overhead. The sparkle would be too much if the room wasn't cosied up by more sombre brown tones. And it is; up to mid height the wall is wainscoted in rich cherry.

At its opposite end the room is brightened by very large windows that give onto the Italian garden.

Chairs and armchairs have been turned around to welcome the guests, many of whom have already gathered here.

Arthur studies them, trying to suss out who the CORE agent is. He places his bets on the tall, handsome guy standing by one of the armchairs. He's alone and exudes an air of danger. 

But since Arthur knows appearances can be deceiving he observes the other guests as diligently as he did the man. He deems the older woman with the round eyes unlikely to be a spy even though he's aware of the threat posed by operatives who've been long in the field. Some of them have been in the game for longer than he's been alive. Not to be ignored...

Next Arthur's eyes fall on a couple. They're young and well dressed – not that anybody trying to buy a casket full of antique coins wouldn't have the funds to sport some Armani – and have a slick air that has something of the operative about it.

While the woman has a rather steely exterior, compressed mouth and arched brows, the man looks puppyish and immature, all round green eyes and shaggy hair. The man reminds Arthur of Merlin. And that's how Arthur tells himself not to dismiss it. Merlin might not look it, but he is a SIS agent. The same might be said for the young man over there.

Two women close the list of guests currently in the room. The first is blonde and beautiful, her attire stylish but severe, formal. Arthur considers her a possible candidate. The other is younger still, brown hair gathered in a pony tail, eyes wide and guileless. There's an unassuming air about her. Of them all she's the only one who’s chosen to dress down, opting for a pair of jeans, black lady brogues, and a fluffy jumper.

Arthur's busy studying her, when the organiser, Agravaine du Bois, interrupts his reverie, by holding his glass up and saying, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Glenarm.”

The guests stop confabulating with each other and straighten, listening to the organiser's words.

“As you know,” du Bois continues, “we're all here for the Carrick Hoard auction but since the main event will only take place the day after tomorrow, Hecherley has decided to organise a few more activities for you to enjoy.”

Arthur leans close to Merlin to whisper in his ear, “Good.”

Probably having guessed what Arthur means, Merlin murmurs, “I know. Perfect,” and takes his hand, giving their stage whispering a legitimate air, a married couple cooing. Merlin's hand is hot but not damp, and his touch his sure without being forceful. 

Arthur squeezes back.

“...a dinner party tonight, a late breakfast tomorrow, a guided trip to Antrim, and a formal dinner tomorrow night,” the organiser continues, “while the last day will begin with a fox hunt and segue into the auction proper.”

“Busy schedule,” the girl in jeans says. 

“For those not used to VIP parties and classy events,” the man with the mane of hair comments, a snort following his words, “it does look like a busy schedule.”

Arthur and Merlin listen on to the rest of the organiser's speech and make sure to study each and every guest. Even though nothing short of a close examination can tell them which one is a CORE agent, making small mental notes can help them narrow down a list of suspects.

They linger in the drawing room until each guest is given keys to their respective rooms. 

 

**** 

The room they're assigned is spacious and elegant, upholstered in tones of blue, an oriental design wall paper brightening the walls. They get to enjoy a canopied four poster and, what matters more, a view of the back garden and the car park behind.

Thanks to this arrangement, they can spy on the other guests' comings and goings.

While Merlin swipes the room for bugs, Arthur sets up his laptop. Once it's up and running he connects his computer to the SIS network and punches in his password. He calls up all the information he can on the Hecherley auction house and their organiser, Agravaine du Bois, but nothing strikes him as unusual.

Then again if CORE is piloting the auction that won't seem evident, not after such superficial scrutiny. 

Arthur shuts his computer down and sighs. They have an hour till dinner.

After a swift inspection of the bathroom, Merlin comes back and says, “Hey, love, what do you say to a shower together? It'll save us some time.”

Arthur cranes his head up at Merlin, who's got his eyebrow lifted. 

Pushing his desk chair back, Arthur drags himself to his feet and follows Merlin to the open cupboard. Merlin brushes garments and hangers aside to reveal a little square device attached to the wardrobe's side panel. It's tiny and black and might look for all the world like a magnetic door jamb switch, but it doesn't take a genius to guess it isn't.

Arthur's hand lands on Merlin's shoulders. “Mm, yeah, why not,” he says, responding to Merlin's question. To produce the right kind of noise, he kisses the juncture of Merlin's neck, making a fleshy sound.

Merlin stiffens under him, his skin erupting in goose-flesh, until his body sags, and he relaxes, saying, “Shower sex, please.”

Arthur's heart beats a beat too fast.

Merlin drags him into the bathroom. Closing the door behind them, he makes for the shower and opens it to full jet. Once the water is hitting the tiles, he says, “Room is bugged.”

“Really, Merlin?” Arthur says, winging an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to do a porno in the shower.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “So they're here already.”

“We're here because we thought they would be.”

Merlin nods. It's clear he's thinking because his forehead puckers and his eyes go smaller, as if he's facing a bright light or actually getting a headache out of thinking too much. “I have no idea who though.”

“That's why we're going to attend all events,” Arthur says. “So we can narrow down our suspect list.”

Merlin raps his palm against the wall of the shower to give support to the idea they're actually fucking in there. “Okay, all right. What if we can't?”

“Then we'll think of something else.”

Merlin breaks into a smile even though there's still traces of worry to his face. “I almost prefer K's cryptic plans.”

 

***

 

Dinner is formal. Though they're allowed casual wear the number of cutlery pieces on the table tells the tale. The table cloth is an undecorated snowy white; the silverware shines with a bright sheen. 

While Arthur pins down their names, the guests take their assigned seats.

Right in front of them sits the tall dark businessman from before. From some casual conversation he overhears, Arthur gathers he's Cenred King, owner of Essetir, a conglomerate based in Manchester.

The seat next to him has gone to the girl in jeans. 

Merlin is sitting next to the boy who looks slightly like him, either a fluke, or the organiser having an odd sense of humour.

The person next to Arthur is the refined glacial blonde Arthur noticed when they were first welcomed at Glenarm. Her name, Arthur gathers when he sees the pendant around her neck, begins with M.

Dinner starts with hors d’oeuvre that look beautiful and taste of nothing much.

After a taste of the salmon millefeuille, Mr King addresses Merlin and Arthur, saying, “So you two in business?”

It's Arthur who answers this one. “Yes,” he says, repeating in as casual a tone as possible their cover story. “I own an insurance company. It's not one of the huge ones but I hope you've heard of it. It's called Camelot.” 

“I can't say that I have,” King says, taking his napkin from off his legs and dropping it on the table to signal that he's finished eating the first course. 

“Arthur,” Merlin puts in, “you know you shouldn't be talking business at dinner.”

“It's not as if I gave him my card,” Arthur says, playing the role of long-time husband, making sure he sounds ticked off enough to suggest this isn't the first time they've had this discussion.

“Gentlemen, please,” King says with a trace of dry humour in his voice, “I hope I didn't start a marital quarrel.”

“Not at all,” Merlin says, faking a grim smile. “We get along quite nicely. There's no need to worry.”

Merlin's neighbour, the dark haired young man who looks a lot like him, pitches in, “I was wondering, if I’m not indiscreet, how long have you two been married?”

Merlin doesn't hesitate nor falter. Neither is he too eager and quick to answer, “A bit, since 2010.”

“That's three years,” Merlin's neighbour says. “I don't call it a bit. It's quite a long time.”

“And you,” Merlin says, seemingly making conversation, “are you and--” he nods at his neighbour's companion. “Are you two married?”

“Oh no,” the girl intervenes. “Mordred and I are engaged, true, but the marriage's some way ahead.”

“Oh, well, congratulations then.”

“Thank you,” the girl says, smiling thinly. 

The conversation becomes more general again. Arthur learns the names of all the guests and potential hoard buyers. Mordred's girlfriend is called Kara. Her father's a collector. Apparently, she's in university, studying art history. A hard story to verify, not so much her enrolment in university – that's easily checked with a few clicks of the mouse – as her more general background. Mordred seems only to be there in the role of fiancé.

The girl in jeans is called Sefa. She makes few comments but she lets fall that she works for a museum. Her interest in the hoard is entirely professional, or so she claims. The stylish blonde Arthur noticed during the gathering in the drawing room is called Morgause Maberley. She's vague about the reasons she's attending the Glenarm auction but continuously comments on the various antiques strewn in the room.

For this mission Arthur has studied the subject, spent a few sleepless nights sharing his bed with a scary number of tomes so he now knows enough to pass as an art history expert and to understand that Morgause knows her stuff.

She might have done as he has and taken a crash course on the subject, but she might truly be interested and here to buy the hoard, no underlying nefarious purposes in sight.

The last guest present for the auction is Alice Grant, an university professor specialising in the history of coinage. She seems to be genuine deal, a quick swipe at his mobile allows Arthur to google her and call up her long bibliography. The fact that she is a bona fide tenured professor though doesn't guarantee she's not an agent. Many of them maintain day jobs as covers and are called back into active service when needed.

“So,” Mordred asks, as Arthur slips his phone back into his pocket, “why do you want the Carrick hoard and why do you think you can outbid us?”

“He certainly can't outbid me,” King says, drinking a pull of his wine.

“It's the largest to have turned up in the last thirty years,” Arthur answers, shrugging his shoulders. “And as to outbidding all of you, well, we'll see what happens, I suppose.”

“What's going to happen,” Cenred King butts in again, his lips crimson with wine, “is that in two days I'm going to be the proud owner of the Carrick Hoard.”

“You haven't reckoned with the rest of us, Mr King,” says Morgause, lifting her glass in a toast Arthur feels is a mockery of the real gesture. “I for one am pretty sure the hoard will be mine.”

As new dishes are brought in, the conversation simmers. Arthur takes note of each small exchange but nothing major happens until dessert time, when Kara says, “so do you think we'll be able to have a look at the coins ourselves before we bid or not?”

“Why are you asking that? Do you think they're not the real deal?” King asks, leaning in, his elbows now on the table. 

“I would want to be able to see them,” says Kara, more lightly than her opening gambit warrants. “That's all.”

A shadow falls over the company after that and dessert is a silent affair. Overall, the atmosphere changes to one of mute suspicion. Arthur almost fancies he can cut the air with a knife. The dinner comes to a close once a few more words have been exchanged by the party guests. Nothing sounds meaningful. Not even Arthur can assign ulterior connotations to phrases like, “The night seems to be rather fine. I wonder what tomorrow's weather will be like?”

There's nothing more to be gleaned here.

With a nod, he and Merlin consult as to their course of action. They both rise at the same time and bid good night to their guests.

They leave the room to a chorus of good night Mr Worth, Good Night Mr Malory.

They're half way up the corridor, when Arthur hears the fall of feet behind him.

Merlin takes his hand.

With a grunt Arthur backs Merlin up against the wall between two dainty pictures hanging either side of him. He slips his knee between Merlin's legs and leans close. He holds a breath as the creak of ancient floorboards betrays a presence behind him.

It's Merlin who, a spark of knowledge and mischief lighting his eyes, leans forward. His hand spans warm around Arthur's neck, his fingers trailing down Arthur's nape, till they run into the collar of his shirt. Eyes flaring wild blue, Merlin's lips soften against his. 

Merlin could go for a stage kiss but he doesn't. After the trading of a few touches, he opens against Arthur's mouth, his tongue slipping in. Arthur's fingers tighten around Merlin's shoulder, finding the bone under the layers of cotton provided by the jacket. Their kiss tangles them together, Arthur leaning in close, Merlin's hand splayed wide over his chest, the other latching onto Arthur's shirt to pull him in.

Merlin's a good kisser, all operatives are, Arthur thinks, their bodies serving the state just as the rest of them does, seducing, taking, using. But it's not the technique that's good about Merlin's kiss. It's how he goes about it, taking when needed, giving when it's best. He paces himself well, taking the breath from Arthur, injecting him with a thrill of softness that coincides with every gentle brush of their lips. He dilutes Arthur's world even though Arthur ought to pay attention to what is going on.

The soft slide of their mouths slowly dies down, Merlin's fingers curling around the back of Arthur's head, Arthur's hands stroking Merlin’s flank, his thumb moving in circles over patches of cotton.

The floor lurches and a shadow moves in the background. Arthur can spy it from the corner of his eyes.

He leans back then closes in again, parting his lips to press them to Merlin's throat, above the collar of his shirt. Merlin's breath hitches; his head thuds back against the wall.

Over the pulse roaring in his ears, Arthur hears someone slink away.

With a ragged breath Merlin asks, “Are they gone?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, his hands landing on Merlin's shoulders in a bid to push off him, something he can't quite do just yet, his breath coming hard, his hands seeking contact. “I think so.”

“Good idea you had there,” Merlin says, his chest rising and falling to a more normal rhythm now.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, trying to match his breathing to Merlin's. “Sorry I had to...”

Merlin’s lips thin at the sides in a grin, his eyes reflecting the moonlight, the dance and sparkle of it. “Don't worry; you weren't my first decoy kiss.”

Arthur pushes off Merlin. “I still shouldn't...” 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, seguing into a shit eating grin. “It was my pleasure.”

With those words ringing in Arthur's skull, they make it back to their room. Arthur's fairly certain no one's following them anymore.

 

**** 

 

The next morning Arthur starts bright and early. On the pretence of going for a jog he goes into snoop mode. On his way to the woods he stops by the car park and takes note of the plate numbers of the cars belonging to the guests, then searches the cars themselves, glove compartment, boot, rifling behind the sun visor, groping under the mat.

He doesn't find much. No one is hiding false documents. He finds proof of Cenred King's penchant for dating blonds in the shape of a series of photos he keeps at the back of the repair manual he's got stashed in the side compartment. He finds a number of high end boutique receipts in Morgause's. A pile of books is scattered over the back seat of Alice's city car. There's absolutely nothing in Mordred and Kara's rental. 

All of this means nothing much. Though he takes pictures of the most salient clues to share with Merlin, he can't call himself satisfied or say that he's a step closer to pinning down the CORE agent.

Once he's done with his spying, Arthur hits the jogging path. He partly does it because of the cover. This is what he purportedly came out this early for. He also does it because going for an early morning run is a routine of his. Nothing pays better on the job than being fit. Being fit can save your life. 

His arms up to his sides, his hands gathered in two firm fists, his legs bounce down the path. He puts one foot down and one foot up all the way to the woods and continues this stern pattern as he trots along a track bordered by trees on either side.

His gait grows stronger the longer he keeps at it. Adrenaline pumps in his veins, clearing his mind. He is running full tilt by the time he makes it into the woods proper and to an area coasted by a stream on one side and one of the property walls on the other. The latter flanks the water concourse, unspooling parallel to it and overlooking the darker corners of the grounds.

His footfall is the only sound, his soles slapping the damp earth as he moves in the shadows. His mind has become a clean slate, void of thought. He quite enjoys the physical sensations that go with exercise, the control he can exert on his body, feeling his heart beat in his chest. He's starting to taking a liking to the property, admiring the green swathes of land and the flowers fighting under coats of frost to stay erect, when he's jumped.

Before he can respond he is punched in the face and knocked to the ground. His skull is ringing by time he has a chance to look at his aggressor: a figure swathed in dark, his features covered by a balaclava. 

Levering off his shoulders, Arthur kicks his attacker in the middle. His attacker folds back but stays upright.

Arthur's heart beat spikes further.

His attacker bares a blade; throws it at him.

With it arcing towards him, Arthur rolls onto his side, using the momentum to get to his feet. He whips his gun out, aiming it at his aggressor. But his attacker has thought quite the same and is training a revolver on him. They're at an impasse. At such close range no one can miss their target. 

A drop of sweat runs down Arthur's temple. A second ticks by. Already pitting his weight sideways, Arthur pulls the trigger, fires. The whistle of a bullet hits his ear at the same time the burn on his arm does. As he hisses, a trail of wetness courses down his elbow. He hits the ground sideways, then looks up.

The moment he does, he sights his attacker, running fast towards the depths of the woods, already a tiny spot on the horizon. Whoever they are, Arthur won't find out now.

**** 

 

When he makes it back to their room, Merlin disengages his mobile from his laptop, and closes the lid of the latter. “What the hell happened?” he says, mouth tightening.

Arthur drops the handkerchief he fastened around his arm. “I was attacked when I went jogging.”

Merlin crosses over to him, grabbing him by the wrist to get a look at the hole in his jumper. “You were shot!”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Arthur says with a hiss.

Merlin sits him on the bed and, in spite of Arthur grunts, strips him of his jumper. When he sees the wound, Merlin's face relaxes. “It's just a scratch.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, mouth twisting as his skin stretches around as the margins of the wound trying to reknit. “I could've told you.”

“How was I supposed to know you were fine?” Merlin asks, the smile that was slowly forming on his lips dying. “What if what happened to Gwaine had happened to you too?”

Arthur reaches for Merlin, grazes his knuckles with his fingers. “I walked into this room under my own steam. That's different.”

Merlin coughs into his fist, turns his head away. “Yeah, but--”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, dropping his hand, “if you're too emotional to do the job...”

“I'm not bloody emotional,” Merlin says, pushing him away, hands on his chest. “You're such a massive tit.”

Arthur bounces back on the bed, lays down, massaging his chest. “Oi, that hurt.”

“Now don't play act,” says Merlin, pointing his index finger at him. Before Arthur can protest and say that it was Merlin who started it, Merlin turns his back on him to go rifle his luggage. He takes a few items out of his suitcase and drops them on the bed.

Studying them, Arthur says, “Didn't know you'd brought a pharmacy with you.”

Merlin opens a bottle of peroxide and pours some of the liquid on a sterile cotton wad. “Shut up,” he says, “pressing the wad against the wound. I'm fixing you.”

“Fixing me, are you?” Arthur asks, sitting up and looking up at Merlin from under his fringe.

Merlin's fingers are spindly; his touch is delicate. You'd hardly think he's killed with those hands but he has. All of them have. His mouth, always generous and soft, has become one thin line. There's a pallor to him right about now that Arthur doesn't like at all just as he doesn't like the murkiness that's come over his eyes, overshadowing the stormy blue of his irises.

“Merlin.”

Merlin applies butterfly plasters along the length of the wound.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, intercepting his hand, wrapping his around Merlin's and flattening the palm on his shoulder.

He takes a big breath.

Merlin seems to still; his body goes taut.

Arthur tips his head to the side, puts a kiss to Merlin's wrist.

Under his, Merlin flexes his fingers, like the beginnings of a fine tremor that's only skin deep. He expels a breath with the softness of a sacred rite, his mouth falling open. Arthur mouths along Merlin's knuckles, touching his lips to every rise of bone, and when Merlin doesn't tell him to stop, he sucks on his index finger, wetting it to the hilt.

Merlin barely reins in a shudder. 

Neither of them asks questions as they come together, not when Arthur untucks Merlin's shirt and undoes the buttons bottom up, and not when Merlin pulls at the waistband of Arthur's joggers, lowering it.

Tipping his head back, Merlin brushes a finger along the length of Arthur's upper lip, chasing the contour of its bow, until Arthur opens and gasps at the touch. Warm, wet lips fit against his, Merlin's nose presses against his own, their faces slanted sideways. Arthur feels the slide of Merlin's close-shaven cheek against his, senses the soft puff of air Merlin releases as he drinks in more air.

Their lips move one on top of the other, sliding in a soft back and forth of catch and release. Arthur traps Merlin's upper lip between his, drawing it into his mouth and lightly sucking on it. As Merlin draws back, warm breath fans over Arthur's chin. They tip their faces again to get the right angle and renew their kiss, letting it deepen, until goose flesh ripples all over Arthur's arms like a chill has taken hold of him. A warm tingle starts a slow boil in his guts.

Their tongues touch and touch and Merlin hisses out a breath. "Do you want this?" Arthur asks him, no air in his lungs either. "Beyond the mission?"

"You're not part of the mission," Merlin tells him, kneading one of his shoulders, squeezing tight as he lets the words out. "We're doing this because I want to."

Arthur's hands grip Merlin at the waist, pulling him between his opening legs. "No regrets then?"

"Why would you be thinking of regrets now?" Merlin asks, his voice rough.

They kiss, long and progressively harder, a hint of desperation colouring their actions. Merlin's strangled moans whisper in his ear, fanning the flames of Arthur's passion. Hiding his face in the damp warmth of Merlin's throat, Arthur does away with Merlin's belt, pulling down his trousers a notch, his hands gripping him close, palm curving around the slope of Merlin's arse. 

“Arthur,” Merlin chokes out, his hands on his shoulders.

His mouth nuzzling his chest, Arthur yanks down on the fabric of Merlin's trousers, until they pool at his feet and Merlin steps out of them, shedding his shoes in one go.

A fine shake to him, Merlin walks back between Arthur's legs. 

Arthur's hands travel up his torso, brushing along the skin of Merlin's sides, skimming along the length of his back, the flat of his palms covering notch after notch of his spine. His face pressed against Merlin's chest, inhaling his scent, he scatters kisses along Merlin's ribcage and across his pecs, wrapping his mouth around Merlin's nipples, one at a time.

A sharp exhale marks each lick and kiss. 

When Arthur draws back, scooting back on the bed, Merlin leans over. He grabs Arthur's shoes one at a time and drops them, letting them thud to the floor before he grabs a hold of Arthur's jogging bottoms. He pulls them down, baring him.

Crawling up the bed, Merlin places kisses on Arthur's shin, on his knee, scattering a myriad of tiny little nips on his thigh. Sliding upwards, he noses Arthur's groin, slow and deliberate. Merlin's closed lips graze the tip of Arthur's cock, moving up and down, like silk cascading along his length, providing no friction but the promise of wet hotness.

Caught between pleasure and desire, Arthur fists the sheets. “Christ.”

“It seems sleeping around helps,” Merlin says, and before Arthur can think or object to that, Merlin seals his mouth around the tip of Arthur's cock, giving it one swift suck. “Doesn't it?”

“Go back to what you were doing,” Arthur grits out, teeth gnashed together. “God, of all the times--”

Arthur's complaint dies on his lips when swollen lips close around his cock once more, and wet heat cradles and shields him.

Warmth enveloping him like a glove, Arthur involuntary jerks up into Merlin’s mouth, his fingers twisting the sheets till he can feel his skin stretching taut over his knuckles.

“You're good, outstanding really,” Arthur says as Merlin flicks his tongue at the underside of Arthur’s cock, pressing with the flat of it as he lingers. Arthur's heart stutters out of synch. 

Arthur tries to tell himself that this is nothing he hasn't had before, that sex is sex and that while it feels good, it shouldn't erode at his composure, work his body so raw he can't control his reactions. But his heart won't stop playing truant and his breathing ratchets up, throaty and low. A moan he can't bite down passes his lips when Merlin hollows his cheeks and bobs up and down, taking the length of him in easily, cradling him in tight heat, pressure changing with his every move.

Watching Merlin giving him a blow job plays with Arthur's self control, unmoors something inside him that comes adrift and fills his heart with need and warmth

“I'm--” Arthur says, trying to cling to the remnants of his self-control, “I'm not asking where you learnt that. Assuming that is--” He lets go of the sheets, already creased like crushed petals, and grips Merlin's nape, which his hot like coals, and damp with a fine sheen of sweat. “That you--”

Winded, colour high on his cheeks, Merlin pulls back, gliding his lips off Arthur, leaving his cock to glisten red in the morning light. He wets his bottom lip and swallows thickly before he says, “I guess you don't want to know.” A smile works on his face to make it look quirky. "Nothing untoward though, Queen and country. Just like you." 

Arthur's fingernails scrape along Merlin's scalp. playing against his hair, raising tufts of it into a bird's nest; something that can be read as a playful action or as a caress. 

Merlin's mouth a constant pressure around his cock, Arthur rocks his hips, pushing his prick into Merlin's mouth, giving in to the slow drag and pull of his tongue. Orgasm crashes clean through him.

An arm hooked around his shoulder, he pulls Merlin up so that he's covering his body, his legs, bony at the knee, bracketing Arthur’s. He brings Merlin's face level with his, breathing him in, pressing his forehead against Merlin's. 

He kisses Merlin deeply, parting Merlin's lips and slowly sliding his tongue into the warmth of his mouth, tasting the acrid taste of himself, his own come. His tongue nudges Merlin's, coaxing it forward before cradling it between his lips.

Gripping Arthur’s shoulders tight, Merlin digs his fingers in till Arthur can feel their pressure like a wake up call, his own lips moving feverishly across Merlin’s. In the pauses between their kisses, Merlin mumbles nonsense words and iterations of Arthur's name Arthur's sure Merlin wouldn't indulge in if he didn't feel safe, if he was playing a role and deep in that game of shadows that is their job.

He's thankful they destroyed the listening deviced planted in the wardrobe because otherwise he wouldn't have been able to listen to his name being called out with this kind of fervour. Not anything he would have missed for the world even though he's not generally a vocal one between the sheets.

Arthur doesn't know how Merlin normally is in bed. He only knows about his own idiosyncrasies. They involve silent sex, names never spoken, invocations never allowed because just one misstep can cost you your life or a secret that's worth more than your continued existence. Sobs and grunts are better than betraying one's own country. Deceit works better when you don't speak the name of your partner because sometimes that's not the name you've got etched on your heart. That's the life they lead.

His fingers twist into the hair at the base of Merlin’s neck; those of his other hand dig in Merlin's flank, the pressure increasing the further Arthur finds himself adrift in sensual torpor.

He leaves a cordon of kisses up the side of Merlin's face. 

"Arthur," Merlin says, drawing back, eyes spirited, his lips bruised and swollen. "I need you, need to fuck, need to--" 

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur says, unable to confess everything he wants right now -- which is everything because having Merlin here is not like play acing at making love -- but up to admitting that much at least. 

Arthur's hands cradle and stroke Merlin's neck as he laces kisses across Arthur's jawline and down his neck. Harsh breaths leave Arthur's mouth as Merlin's mouth lingers on his Adam's apple and along his clavicle, his open mouth bruising kisses into his skin.

Arthur lets his legs fall open. 

Merlin reaches between them, thumbing his hole. "Anything in the way of supplies?"

A blaze of heat shoots through Arthur, but he manages to say, "Try the sports bag I left at the foot of the bed."

Merlin quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't comment on why Arthur's got lube and condoms on a mission like this. The bag's on the floor, but it's close enough that Merlin only needs to to stretch his arm out to be able to rifle the front pocket. Without much effort he succeeds in making a grab of a condom and a bottle of lube. “Here,” he says, voice husky.

After kissing his knee, Merlin lowers himself on the bed, reaching for Arthur. When Merlin's fingers touch his skin, Arthur hisses. Merlin stops at that, pausing to smear his fingers in a thick coat of lube before trying again. 

“It's cold,” Arthur says, shifting, his eyes on the ceiling for fear he'll go red if he looks at Merlin now, his breath caught in his chest. "Didn't you pick up how to be slick and smooth in all your years of spying?"

"Not going for that," Merlin says, his voice like shards of glass. 

"God," Arthur groans as Merlin spreads him open, the feeling of fullness one he likes. 

“A little bit more,” Merlin breathes out before sliding a second finger in.

Biting his lip, Arthur closes his eyes, indulging in the physicality of this act, this moment, his body relaxed with orgasm and taut with the thrill of this new intimacy. Before sliding back up, Merlin presses his lips against the flesh covering his hip. Then he rolls on the condom and positions himself. 

Having lined his cock up, Merlin gives one shallow thrust and gets a seat in. He goes slow at first, pushing in inch by inch, causing Arthur's heart to pound dully with an encroaching sense of emotion that almost breaks him in two. 

"Arthur, I can't--” Merlin says, a background growl to his words, bucking his hips in shimmies and little motions that make Arthur bite his lip as he takes the last inch. For a second he doesn't even respond, too steeped in his own feelings, poking at the notion of Merlin -- this lad he'd always thought too kind to be an operative -- being his gentle lover.

Merlin breathes hard and fast, a serrated pattern to his rhythm. Despite the strain, he reaches out to wrap his hands around Arthur forearms, using the leverage to thrust. 

“You feel good,” he says, half a smile on his lips, face squeezed in one of those funny sex expressions Arthur's always tried not to indulge in himself, the measure of his sleek detachment, something Merlin clearly feels no need to display.

Merlin begins with shallow strokes, watching his face as if the by play of Arthur's expression is a mystery Merlin wants to fathom. There's no mystery to it, Arthur thinks, as he lets the glide and catch of Merlin's flesh light up his nerve endings, a wash of banked, easy pleasure going through him, warming his body, making his soft cock twitch with latent interest. 

The burn isn't keen any more, a low simmering heat of flesh. It's pleasant. It's good, so unbelievably good. Arthur works his lower lip in his mouth. Merlin grips his hips, trying to change the angle of his entry, making it steeper. Arthur has always prided himself on being quick on the uptake, in bed and out, so he lifts his own hips to meet Merlin's.

"Is this working for you?" Merlin asks, a little broken.

“For god's sake Merlin, don't think of me and take your bloody pleasure,” Arthur says, grabbing Merlin's shoulders.

Taking the hint, Merlin rocks forward, Arthur pushing back against him. 

Arthur meets him on the next thrust too, his cock rising to half mast. Their pace gets fast and hard and although Arthur has come already he feels he wants more, that there's still a zenith to be reached, a rise to be crested before it's over. His heart beats fast, as fast as if he was nearing orgasm, fracturing along crack lines he didn't know where there. He spurts a few drops of semen, coming dry.

Throwing his head back as orgasm takes him, Merlin comes as well. He looks beautiful like that, fey and carnal both, his mouth shiny and red from their kisses, the lines of his face coalescing in a mirror of wrecked pleasure. His cock gives one final spurt and he shudders. Arthur can't stop himself from circling his arms around him and guiding Merlin to slump forward onto his chest.

“Now I feel totally unequipped to start the day,” Merlin says, huffing a laugh in Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur knows exactly how he feels.

 

*****

 

Unfortunately, reality comes knocking at their door, literally.

“I'll get it,” Merlin says, squinting at the bandage covering Arthur's wound. 

Before opening the door, Merlin gives Arthur time to fish for a shirt and boxers. Merlin himself puts the underwear he was wearing before back on and stomps to the door. Alice is waiting for him on the other side.

From the gap in the door Arthur can see her blush. Good, her finding them like this supports their cover story. “I didn't mean to disturb you but there's been a grievous accident and Mr du Bois wants us all downstairs.”

Arthur and Merlin catch each other's eyes before Merlin asks, “What accident?”

“Mr King was just found dead in his room,” Alice says. “Shower accident apparently.”

Arthur and Merlin don't have to fake their dismay when they hear that.

“Mr du Bois,” Alice continues while she wrings her hands, “wants us downstairs so we can answer the police's questions. He also wants us to decide whether the auction should proceed or not.”

“I see,” Merlin says, looking down at his bare legs. “We'll be downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Yes, I'm still sorry I disturbed you.” She searches the room for Arthur. She catches him donning his trousers. “But I couldn't not tell you.”

“No, you did the right thing,” Merlin tells her, sounding comforting. “We'll be down in a flash.”

Once the door is closed on Alice, Merlin turns around and sags against it. “Fuck it,” he says, passing a hand through his hair. “Do we believe this was a genuine accident?”

Arthur finds one of his running shoes some distance off the foot of the bed. “Right after somebody pounced on me and shot me?” he asks, sitting back down on the bed and undoing the laces. “Not a chance.”

“So what?” Merlin asks, as he starts pacing, one hand on his hip, the fingers of his other one at his temple as though he's trying to delay a headache. “Our CORE agent is picking out their rivals? Those they think have a good chance of securing the hoard?”

Arthur laces up one of his shoes, tugging on the cords that hold the tongue too tight against he base of his ankle to lighten the bite of it. “Either that, or they know someone's on them.”

“So they're--” Merlin makes air quotes, “taking out randoms in the hope of getting at the SIS person shadowing them?”

“Let's hope they've not wised up as to us being here,” Arthur says, slipping on his other shoe. “Let's hope this was part of their original plan.”

The tendons in Merlin's arms stand out. “I hope you don't mean for us to stand back and watch as this killer offs more people till we know who it is?”

“No.” Arthur rises. “We find out who the CORE agent is and take them out before they can sow more victims.”

 

**** 

They don't tell the police anything of note. They keep to their parts. It's not as if the police can help them anyway and their mission isn't sanctioned, so they can't exactly open up. Chief Inspector Fisher from the Police Service of Northern Ireland asks all the rights questions and seems suspicious of King's sudden death but Merlin and Arthur give him nothing as to their own suspicions.

CORE is bigger than the police; regular officers don't have what it takes to take out their agent and uncover a lead to the bigwigs of the group.

The police questioning takes a good chunk of the morning.

After all the guests have been questioned, du Bois gathers them in the drawing room they first met in. “I suppose my request for your presence comes as no surprise,” he says, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “In the wake of Mr King's passing, I felt compelled to ask you whether you want to go on with the auction. Hecherley, as an old auction house, will respect your current wishes.”

“We should go on,” Sefa says, nervously tugging on her pony tail. “Mr King's death was an accident. It shouldn't interfere with the auction.”

Arthur gives Merlin a glance.

“I agree,” says Morgause Maberley, crossing her legs in a swish of skirts. “We barely knew Mr King. I don't see his death as anything more than an unpleasant incident that has no bearing on the business at hand.”

Kara and Mordred also speak up. “We do agree.”

“I don't,” says Alice, her mouth flattened into a thin line wrinkles show more clearly around than usual. “I'd rather we didn't proceed and respect the dead, but I see I'm being outvoted.”

“Not yet,” says Mr du Bois, looking at Merlin and Arthur.

They have no other answer to give than, “As much as we regret King's passing,” Merlin says, in character as the thoughtful but art obsessed Mr Malory, “we want to get on with the auction.”

“The decision's taken, then,” says du Bois, shaken and feeble. “The auction will take place tomorrow after the hunting session.”

As they all file out of the room, Arthur and Merlin notice Sefa straggle behind. While the others disappear to their rooms, they hide behind a corner and see her fiddling with the lock of drawing room door.

“You think?” Merlin breathes in his ear as they watch her actions. 

“Possibly,” says Arthur, not voicing his misgivings. “It seems as though she's planning to return later.”

“And we'll be waiting for her.”

 

**** 

The room is washed in moonlight, empty but for the mosaic geometry of its beams playing on the floor and the changing the shape of the furniture as it's hit by them. The door opens and the floorboards creak under the weight of a lithe person.

Merlin's the fist to glide out of his corner, his gun a sleek extension of his arm as he points it at the intruder. “Stop where you are,” he says, just as Arthur comes out of his hiding place, giving Merlin back-up.

A shaft of errant light illuminates the barrel of Merlin's weapon.

The intruder screeches, Sefa's voice echoing throughout the chamber. “Please, don't hurt me. Please.”

Arthur's eyebrows converge. What the fuck.

Merlin switches on the light. “You have ten seconds to tell us what you were here for.”

Sefa gnaws on her lips, causing blood to bead at the corner. 

“Now,” Arthur adds, releasing the gun's safety. 

Sefa jumps but doesn't say anything.

Merlin takes a step forward. “Talk or you'll regret it, Sefa.”

Sefa holds both her hands up in the air. “You can't arrest me if I haven't done anything wrong yet.”

Arthur's sense of dissonance is heightened. He looks to Merlin, who nods before pocketing his gun. “All right, tell us what you were planning and who sent you and no one will arrest you.”

“Nobody sent me,” says Sefa, backing towards the corner.

“Then tells us why you stole into this room at the dead of night,” Merlin asks, voice sweeter than Arthur's, bordering on the friendly now.

Sefa's eyes flash. “I won't--”

“This is not a game,” Arthur tells the girl, his weapon still trained on her, his jaw set, his voice as menacing as Merlin's isn't. 

“The Carrick hoard belongs to my father!” Sefa eventually exclaims, indignation colouring her voice and stinging her face red.

“You'll have to explain that,” Merlin says, wearing a calm expression that's the complete opposite of Sefa's scared one.

Sefa tips her head towards Arthur. “Only if he puts away the gun.”

Arthur slips his weapon in its holster. “Now cooperate.”

Sefa moves to the armchair Merlin points her to. She sinks into it with a sigh, her hands folded in her lap. “The Carrick Hoard belongs to my father,” she begins. “He found it on our land.”

“You know the law states that it's not finders keepers, don't you?” Arthur says, starting to see where this is going and how off track they really are.

“Yeah, but it's not the state that has the hoard now, is it?” Sefa says, lifting her gaze to Arthur's before dropping it. “My father did the wrong thing not reporting it, but the Hecherley people stole it from him.”

“So you where what?” Merlin asks, lifting his shoulders in wonder, “trying to steal it back?”

“Yeah?” says Sefa as if that's a normal thought process. “I certainly don't have the money to bid on it.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, squeezing his the bridge of his nose. “Well, I'm afraid we won't let you.”

Now that she knows Arthur and Merlin aren't shooting her, Sefa seems much more relaxed. Her shoulders have gone down and she's uncurled her hands. “Who are you two by the way?” she asks, looking from one to the other of them. “You're not police.”

“That is none of your business,” Arthur says, just as Merlin supplies the girl with a reasonable excuse. “We secretly work for Hecherley.”

“Oh,” says Sefa, the lines on her face smoothing out again. “You're protecting the hoard against thieves.”

“Yes we are.” Merlin puts his hands on his hips, doing an odd impression of a put upon parent. “And that means you're packing up and going. Or we will have to sic the police on you after all. I'm sure you don't want that.”

Sefa's breath rattles out of her. “But the hoard--”

“The police won't see it like that.”

Sefa nods reluctantly. Then stands and walks to the door. 

She has her hand on the handle, when Merlin says, “And you can leave the safe's code with me.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. 

Sefa fetches a sigh, walks back to Merlin and hands him a piece of rolled up paper. “How did you know I had it?”

Merlin grins a shit eating grin. “Well, you were so good as to secure access to this room. I didn't think you'd be so thoughtless as to put yourself through all that without knowing you could get to the safe.”

“You're good,” Sefa says, studying Merlin as if he's a brand new person. “Personally I think you're wasted as a PI for Hecherley.”

Merlin smiles amicably. “Yes, well, food on the table and all that.”

Sefa nods. “Well, good luck then,” she says, before quietly leaving.

“Shouldn't we make sure she packs up and goes?” Arthur asks when the sound of her footsteps has deadened.

“Nah.” Merlin grins at the door she used. “I think we gave her a good fright.”

Arthur can see that. Sefa doesn't matter now anyway. She's not CORE. They're narrowing the field down and will soon know who their true agent is. “By the way,” he says, walking over to Merlin to ruffle his hair, “that safe code coup was a good one. It's going to be very useful.”

“Yes well,” Merlin says, pinching Arthur's sides. “I'm resourceful. You should keep me.”

Though he probably shouldn't, Arthur fits their mouths together.

 

***** 

They're following the fox, Arthur causing the horse to jump the tree stump ahead. He's almost cornered the animal, the hooves of his mount thumping like thunder on the half wet ground, when the shot resounds.

Arthur reins his horse in sharply, causing the animal to slow to a canter. Merlin catches up with him. “The fox's right there and we're not supposed to really shoot at it!”

“I know,” Arthur says, his stomach twisting with unease. “This can only mean one thing.”

“Another one's down.”

Arthur nods stiffly, reining the horse back so he can herd it in the general direction the shot came from. “Let's go check.”

What they find is Morgause's corpse. She's staring at the sky, her eyes open, milky and unblinking. She's lying in a pool of russet leaves that contour her halo-like curls. There's no gun wound on her but she's as dead as could be. She isn't cold though, Arthur establishes when he touches his hand to hers. It's not even stiff yet.

“So what?” Merlin asks, tugging the bridle of his spooked horse. “The shot we heard was fired in the air?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, standing up and brushing his knees. “To frighten her horse so that he'd throw her.”

“They couldn't be sure she'd die,” Merlin says, kneeling on the ground next to the body. He turns Morgause's neck. “Broken,” he says.

“They did make sure,” Arthur says, watching the Morgause's cheek sink against the mulch, “but this way it's going to be less evident and nobody will cry murder, not until after the post-mortem is run.”

Merlin takes off his gloves and stands. “Yeah, I can see how they'd be wanting to buy time, “at least until after the auction's done with.”

“Exactly.”

“So we have three suspects left,” Merlin says, leading the horse away from the corpse.

Arthur goes to retrieve his mount too. His was so nervous he had to tie it before approaching the body. “Yeah, it's one of these three: Mordred, Kara or Alice.”

“Well I know who I'm betting on,” Merlin tells him, throwing him a meaningful look from on top the saddle.

With a foot in the stirrup, Arthur says, “I think I agree and that I have a plan.”

 

****

Arthur presses the gun against her neck, clicking the safety off so she knows she's dead if she moves. “Drop your mobile.”

Kara opens her hand, dropping her phone. The case shatters when it lands. “He'll go on with the buy.”

“Not if Merlin makes it known to him that we have you.”

The muscles at Kara's nape bunch, knotting above the line of her shirt. The skin around the gun's muzzle is whiter, like dove feathers. “Mordred is too good to fail in his mission.”

“He's too new,” Arthur tells her, watching as the breeze catches at Kara's hair. “He's in love with you. That's why you're posing as husband and wife. He'll save you and let go of the hoard.”

“He knows the hoard is worth more than they're selling it for,” Kara says in the impassioned tones of the fiercely militant. “He knows it'll fund CORE operations for years to come.”

Arthur hands her his own mobile. “Text him, use whatever recognition code you generally employ and tell him that we have you and that if he doesn't drop out of the auction I'll kill you.”

Kara scoffs. “Six doesn't kill so easily. You'll have to contact your superior who'll have to do some risk assessment before okaying you.”

“One,” Arthur says, making himself sound cold and detached, “that's discretional. Two, what makes you think I'm working for Six right now?”

Kara's body coils, gets smaller. Conversely she sounds bolder. “Who would you be working for?”

“That's right,” Arthur says, his fingers spasming around the trigger. “I'm a Six operative.”

“Then I'm safe.”

Arthur tuts. “You'll have to rethink that. This is no SIS mission. SIS knows nothing about it.”

“It's impossible,” Kara splutters, her clear enunciation getting lost in a voice tremor. “You can't be on your own.”

“Oh but I am,” Arthur says, inching closer, saying the words right in Kara's ear. “This mission is unauthorised. Remembered Greene? We're avenging him.”

Kara flinches; Arthur can see her whole body master a shake. “He was in the way of the mission,” she says. “Nothing personal.” A cracking sound is released in the wake of the last consonant she utters.

Arthur is still confused as to the origins of the sound when Kara starts to shake, then seize, falling into his arms. As she turns in his hold, Arthur can see her face: the foam that is forming at her mouth, the increasing pallor of her skin, and knows she's cracked some kind of poison pill with her teeth.

She's taken the spy's out. 

Arthur tries to clear her airways. The choking sounds Kara is making tell him that he's doing little but stave off her death. In the hopes that it's cyanide she's ingested Arthur packs her mouth full of the Hydroxocobalamin pills he always has on him and then dives for his phone, calling ambulance services.

While he waits he reassembles Kara's mobile and, scrolling at her preceding texts, guesses at the code she and Mordred are using. He sends Mordred's a new message: “Drop out or they'll kill me.”

The ambulance's lights flare into view two minutes later.

 

***** 

Morgana exits the interrogation room, leaving Mordred sitting around its long table. He's as mute when she leaves as he was when she started pressing him for information two hours ago. His eyes are just as lifeless and cast down, his skin the same grey as the colour of the shirt they gave him.

Morgana enters the room Arthur's in and faces the other side of the two way-mirror. “He says he won't talk unless we free Kara.”

“That's preposterous,” Arthur says, arms crossed. He watches as Mordred shifts on the rickety wooden chair he's perched on. He looks like a school boy held for detention more than a CORE henchman. “She killed at least five operatives.”

“Yes,” Morgana agrees, her hand flat on the glass. “He's grasping at straws.”

In the other room Mordred sidles uncomfortably once more but other than annoyance with his seating position he betrays no other feeling. It's been like that for days. 

“At least we stole the hoard,” Arthur says, thinking of how brilliant Merlin was getting the safe code, allowing them to steal into the drawing room before the auction begun and secrete the coins in a sports bag they later sent down the laundry shoot. The recovery went so smoothly Arthur is still surprised. 

“Yes,” Morgana acknowledges without allowing for praise. “You did save the state quite a lot of money with that stunt.”

“Besides, now we know Mordred is capable of making the wrong move.” Arthur adjusts his tie, fixing his tie clip so it doesn't sit askew. “This means he can be duped into revealing details about CORE.”

“Perhaps,” says Morgana, pushing her lips together and then twisting them sideways. “Or maybe he'll close himself off more.”

“He's the only link we have,” Arthur tells Morgana, a chill coursing through him as Mordred's eyes meet his across the mirror Mordred can't see through. “We'll have to milk him for all his worth.”

Morgana's shoulders sag. “Maybe after a few months detention he'll be readier to spill the beans.”

Arthur turns away from the mirror, giving his back to it. “We have to believe that. We have to believe we can undermine and ultimately dismantle CORE.”

Morgana smiles this time. Her smile isn't worry free. It's laden with the acknowledgement that the fight they're fighting against CORE is going to be a long one, but it's also an honest recognition of hope. “We will.”

Arthur acknowledges that with a nod, then coughs into his fist and says, “Well, since Mordred's not talking and Gwaine is awake, I was thinking....”

Morgana spreads her arms out, indicating the exit. “That you'd go visit. Yes of course you can.”

Before Morgana can change her mind, Arthur starts for the door.

“Oh and Arthur,” Morgana says when Arthur's just about reached it. “Don't think you and Emrys won't face a disciplinary hearing when this is done.”

Straightening, his muscles tightening, Arthur says, “Going rogue was all my idea. Merlin just...”

Morgana waves him off. “Save your breath for when you're meeting K. And now go and send Gwaine my best wishes for his complete recovery."

“Will do,” Arthur says, before escaping the room and with that the Vauxhall Cross SIS building.

 

***** 

The room is bathed in sunlight. Vases full of flowers sit on every available horizontal surface, giving the space a rainbow quality. A half open box of chocolate is sitting on the bed, Gwaine's hand closing around a handful of truffles. 

Merlin is sitting at the foot of the bed, against the metail rail, a pillow in his lap.

“Gwaine,” says Arthur, the door falling shut behind him with the softest of thuds, “I see that not even a near death experience can kill your sweet tooth.”

“Most definitely not,” Gwaine says, and though his face is black and blue and still swollen, he looks perky, the smile reaching his eyes. “Thank God Merlin here knows what I like.”

Merlin grins amiably, the tension lines that have been sculpting his face ever since they heard Gwaine had been downed lifting. 

“I'm sorry I'm afraid I only have a get well card,” Arthur says, propping it, wrapped as it is in its crepe envelope, against one of the vases the hospital provided. “No sweetmeats.”

“And that's why I'll always love Merlin more than you,” Gwaine says, reaching out to pat Merlin's knee. He winces as he does but he doesn't seem to be regretting the move. 

“See, Arthur,” Merlin says with an entirely exaggerated eyebrow waggle, “he loves me more than you.”

Arthur straddles a chair. “He would,” he says nonchalantly, as though the idea doesn't pierce his armour some. “But then again people mistakenly think you're sweeter and more endearing than you actually are.”

Merlin's eyes wrinkle where they taper off with merriment at the sides of his face. “That's part of my cover, as you should know.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “you make them all fall for you.”

Merlin smiles sweetly. It's partly genuine, Arthur can see that. Merlin's dimples are there and there's a shine to his eyes that says his expression is what it purports to be. But there's also a veneer of cloyingness there, with Merlin pushing his mugging for all he's worth, that's present for some other reason Arthur can't fathom. Arthur hopes the show is for Gwaine's benefit, for the world's benefit, that Merlin's playing it up so no one can ever guess what's happened between them. “Yeah, I'm a heart breaker,” Merlin says, continuing his banter with Arthur.

Gwaine's gaze slides from one to the other of them in a cool analytical way. “Is there's something you're not telling me, lads?”

Before either Arthur or Merlin can lie their way out of this a nurse bursts in, saying, “Sorry Mr Green, visiting hour's over.”

Merlin makes to stand. “I'll be in London for a couple more days,” he says, pushing the box of chocolates closer to Gwaine's hand so he doesn't have to strain to reach its contents. “So I suppose you'll see me again before the week is out.”

“What about you, Pendragon?” Gwaine asks, sending him an inquisitive look.

Arthur straightens his jacket in preparation for leaving. “I'll drop by too if Morgana doesn't bite my gonads off.”

“There's something you're both not telling me,” Gwaine says, the machinery recording the rhythm of Gwaine's heartbeat giving a spiking sound. “I just know it.”

“You're upsetting my patient,” the nurse says, sending Arthur a death glare as she starts fussing over the arrangement of Gwaine's sheets. “I'm afraid you'll have to go.”

Arthur holds the door open for Merlin, who's crossing the room the circuitous way round so as not to disturb all the drip lines Gwaine's tied too. “Yes, we were just about to.”

“Yes, nurse and I,” says Gwaine, clearly giving up on grilling them and leering at the woman in spite of looking worse off for wear, “were about to get friendly, weren't we?”

The nurse huffs, but doesn't chew Gwaine's head off, which probably means Gwaine will score with her once his health permits again. “Bye Gwaine,” Arthur says, as he leaves the room, ignoring Gwaine's flirting.

Merlin follows him out.

Once they're in the hallway, Arthur grabs Merlin by the elbow, hijacking his trajectory so that he can lead to an unfrequented corridor. 

“Fuck,” Merlin says, smoothing the fabric Arthur crumpled by gripping him, “a bit eager, aren't we?”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur apologises, dropping his hand and holding himself rigid. “It's just...” Arthur supposes he could go fishing, approach the subject in as roundabout a way possible so as to test the waters. But he needs to know. “Come to mine. We're both off duty.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, eyes slimming to slits, “you know it's against all protocol.”

“Yes.” Arthur risks his life every bloody day to respect that protocol. “I know that. What I want to know is whether you're ready to break the rules with me.” He stiffens, his facial muscles feeling unresponsive. He has to work his jaw to say, “Or if it was just...”

“A fling?” Merlin asks, looking anywhere but at Arthur. Arthur's not sure if he's checking for eavesdroppers or if he just can't meet Arthur's eyes. “No, it wasn't a fling.”

Arthur's heart gives a kick. He pouts around his next question, nearly unwilling to ask it, but stupidly needing to as much as he needs breathing. “Then what was it...”

“You know,” Merlin says, and this time his slightly wet, shadowed eyes fasten on Arthur's. “You know what it was and what...” He rakes a hand through his hair. “What I feel for you but...”

“You broke the rules for Gwaine, to avenge him,” Arthur stiffly points out, his hand gesticulating at the corridor housing Gwaine's bedroom. He feels like a heel for behaving like an intemperate child who can't help but feel competitive at the worst possible moment, but he can't quite stop the words from forming or the indignation he feels from chafing his face red with a blush.

Merlin hangs his head, squeezes his sinuses and nods. “Yeah, yeah I did. But I don't care about my career as much as you do.”

“Fuck SIS,” Arthur says in the lowest growl that's ever escaped his lips. “You're worth more than SIS,” he lets out, his words softening as he delivers them.

Merlin tilts his head back, his eyes widening to reveal an expanse of blue that's fit to stop Arthur's breath right in his lungs. “I'm on a mission, starting in two days.”

Arthur bobs his head. It stands to reason; Morgana threatens him with a hearing but sends Merlin on a mission as if his track record hadn't been tainted by their jaunt in Northern Ireland, always playing favourites. Or perhaps... “K will forgive you just about anything.”

Merlin rewards him with a toothy grin. “That's neither here nor there.”

Arthur leans in, wanting to kiss Merlin, but Merlin stops him by placing his palm on his mouth. “I'll be back in two weeks if all goes well.”

“Are you telling me I should pray for your safe return and that we can then pick up where we left off?” Arthur's not sure he can't stand the strain. Risking his life is one thing, waiting for Merlin, hoping he doesn't end up dead, is quite another.

Merlin shakes his head and whispers, “No, I'm telling you that I'll be there for you.” He steps back then, loping backwards until he whirls around and starts walking down the corridor leading to the lifts in big strides. “Let's see how long it takes you to look me up and find my confidential private address, Commander Pendragon.”

 

The End.


End file.
